Forgotten
by teacupdestiny
Summary: Cerulean lives as a pleasure companion in the fire nation, desperately trying to forget the girl she once was and the life that was stolen from her. Her past returns in the form of a particular fire nation prince. Zutara. M.


The bending suppressants make her ill even when she receives the smallest possible doses. It leaves her sprawled on her sleeping mat well past dawn, a lifeless marionette. Waking is hard, thinking is harder. She needs help bathing, a maid to dress her. The fog begins to lift only a little past noon, when Cerulean sits before her mirror. She likes to comb her hair. It's easy to get lost in the long, smooth strokes. Like paddling a canoe, it's calming. It's second nature.

Sometimes, Cerulean marvels at how easy it is to brush her hair now. With all the fancy mixtures and treatments the House provides, it's never been more tame. It had been one of the few things she'd liked upon arriving, but now she misses the days long past. Days filled with sky bison and brothers and curly hair that took to combing like an arctic hen took to water.

These days her hair is always silky and fine, always perfumed. Cerulean is clothed in fine silks, fed, and befriended. She has an allowance, a day off to spend as she pleases. This is the reward for her obedience. She would hate it if she had the strength to remember. These days it's easier to just be Cerulean and let the past go. Even if she's trapped in it, this is the life she leads.

"Cerulean," a voice calls from the doorway, "Are you awake?"

"Come in, Hana," she says, "I need help with my hair."

Moments later, a painted face appears in the mirror. Hana is a friend and coworker and maid all rolled into one. Today her gown is pale pink and embroidered with cherry blossoms; there are a few in her hair. Cerulean thinks she looks beautiful, even with a face painted as white as fresh snow. Hana is quick to pull up a stool, taking the brush and creating a masterpiece with the hair that Cerulean can barely braid.

"How are you feeling?" Hana asks.

She likes to chitter and chatter as they prepare themselves. She tells Cerulean about the night's clients; apparently the two of them have been requested by some _very important_ noblemen. "Maybe even by the _Fire Lord_," she says during the application of the white face paint they all wear, "Mistress Peony won't tell anyone." After the layer of cool white, her eyes are lined with kohl and her lips painted red. Jewelry is added, fancy robes pulled on, sashes tied. Cerulean speaks little more than a few words when she is not playing companion. Hana is more than used to this.

All of the girls here have stories. The differences between them are how they cope with it. Hana's story is perhaps rather typical, a minor noblewoman sold to the House for disgracing the family, but she has adapted to this more so than the others. She is perpetually cheerful, rarely frowning and always speaking fondly of her old life. She finds her comfort in extending her love to others. Cerulean is the opposite; she withdraws. When she wakes from dreams of avatars and sky bison, she reminds herself that this life of hers is no dream. There will be no rescue, no sky bison waiting to whisk her away.

This is the here and the now. Cerulean locks away the small water tribe girl she once was and loses herself in the process of becoming the popular pleasure companion she now is.

"They won't know what hit them," Hana is saying, "You'll be quite the knockout."

Cerulean examines herself in the mirror. Her skin has been painted white, not a single sliver of cinnamon brown skin shows. Her gown is the color of ocean, the ice right after dawn, the blue in her eyes that she was named for. _Cerulean_, the beautiful stranger, gazes back at her. A voice at the back of head whispers _whore_. She tries to smile for her friend. They've both been trained to smile and flirt and laugh, but an honest smile is harder. Cerulean is no longer very good at them, but Hana beams as though she has handed her the world.

They report to the House Mistress.

Rumor has it that Mistress Peony was once the concubine to Fire Lord Azulon himself. She's nearing eighty, but stiff with elegance and poise and an iron rod for those who misbehave. If anything, the mistress rules like the former Fire Lord: with an iron fist. They've all been at the end of her stick and some point. Even the ever sweet Hana. Some of the girls think it's how she shows affection. Cerulean thinks that the power has gone to the old woman's head. She bows respectfully when they arrive in her presence.

"Hana, Cerulean," the old woman nods in lieu of a greeting, "You two have been requested by the Fire Lord himself to entertain his guests. There are only two of them, but they shall arrive with the hour. I trust that you will both bring prestige to our humble House."

Hana bows her head, "Of course, Mistress Peony."

Cerulean echoes her, struggling to keep her attention upon the somber grey woman. A side effect of the bending suppressant, her thoughts often move sluggishly. She's been trained to mask this as contemplation, but the mistress is not above rapping knuckles when her thoughts wander.

"Good," the old woman tells them, "You will attend them in the lotus pavilion."

The girls hurry to the pavilion. Hana expresses her delight at such important guests. Cerulean contemplates suicide. Or rather, a second attempt at it. The House of Heavenly Delights keeps a careful watch over its girls; not even utter disgrace would free her from this gilded cage. She'd do well to remember that. The last attempt had won her a severe beating and a week of starvation. Cerulean tries to concentrate on her companion.

The lotus pavilion comes into view. Cerulean has always liked this area, hidden solitude in the center of the House grounds. They fall into a practiced, elegant gait; as though they have all of eternity before them. The stepping stone pathway, following a winding koi pond, is smooth beneath thinly slippered feet. A pair of weeping willows guard the entrance, waving friendly arms in the gentle breeze. Here, she tells herself, exists no reminder of what she is. Except for the two men waiting in the shadows of the pavilion, dressed in their finest.

Cerulean has always wondered why a man would dress up for a pleasure companion. Is it to impress? To prove that they somehow deserve the attention lavished upon them? Cerulean entertains as long as there is payment; she has no say in who her client will be, no way to refuse. In any way, it's likely that these men have never felt the pangs of hunger or felt shame for having nothing more than threadbare clothing. They've never been without and that's a good enough reason to hate them for.

Cerulean and Hana ascend gracefully, sweeping into perfect synchronized bows. They take this brief moment to observe their surroundings. A table has already been furnished with a delicate china tea set and the guests already seated. One of the men wears a spotless pair of obi, the other is barefoot. Hana murmurs a gentle greeting, Cerulean allows her eyes to lift with an almost coy shyness. Her eyes widen in terror.

One of the men she has never seen; he is unimportant. Perhaps the son of an admiral or general. The second man, barely more than a man, she knows. It's been months and months, so long that she hardly recognizes him. The scar that ravages his face, however, is all the proof she needs. He looks genuinely surprised, as though this is the last place he would have expected to find her. It is surprising; this was the last place Cerulean ever expected to end up in.

Crown Prince Zuko leaps to his feet, rushing toward her before she can fall into a bending stance. A futile bending stance; water has not answered her call for months. She prays he won't attack her, the girl she has become has forgotten how to fight back. His hands, rough and warm, curl around her wrists—his face is angry until he finds the terror in her eyes.

"_Katara?"_ he finally asks.

It's been so long that she's almost forgotten the sound of her own name.


End file.
